Slip
by Phantomholdsmyheart2743
Summary: Christine and Erik have been dancing around their attraction for ages. Christine takes a drastic step. A bit of mildly naughty fun. AU Modern day. E/C Fluff! A one-shot for now.


**A/N: All right, loves; here's a little bit of modern day fun that came to mind. Please review, I usually confine my efforts to the past, and would enjoy hearing your thoughts on this foray into the modern world.**

Christine Daae threw her phone across the room in dismay. It bounced off her unmade bed onto the floor. Why hadn't he returned her calls? Answered her messages. Over a simple slip. She had mentioned once again her desire to look upon his face again. Because she was growing fond, and there was a new string of tension between Erik and she; an acknowledgement that he was a sexual being. A real, live, man.

And things had settled down so nicely. Lessons had renewed, and for awhile everything was grand. Then the feelings started. Christine sighed. She felt disgusting. Three hours of ballet, and for what—to be scolded by Madame Giry for having a preoccupied expression. It wasn't exactly like she had planned to notice his gaze from box five, those eyes burning through her. She could hardly be expected to concentrate when the very man she had been trying to talk to for three weeks had decided to show up in the flesh.

And that flesh. Christine shucked her sweaty clothes into the hamper by her bathroom door.

"You know what," she said to the emptiness of her room. "Fuck him."

She slammed the bathroom door behind her, because it was indeed the lack of fucking him that had caused her problems.

She hadn't intended to want him, but when his hands ghosted her flesh as he corrected her posture, as those beautiful fingers spread across piano keys and violin strings…it was extremely difficult to ignore. She was, despite Erik's delusions, quite human.

Her coconut shampoo ran into her eyes and she swore again.

The indignity of the whole business affronted her. And she was disgusted to realize that she was crying. Crying in the shower over her narcissistic, uncommunicative, deformed teacher!

"Fuck you, Erik." She whispered. But the more the mantra 'fuck him' repeated in her head, the more it sounded like an answer rather than chastisement.

The heat of the water soothed her, and by the time she got out of the shower she was no longer livid, but irate. No towels. "Fuck it all!"

Naked, she stalked through the apartment—who cares, who was there to see? Meg was gone, vacationing with some patron on some island Christine couldn't be bothered to remember.

The pale green, chipped paint of the kitchen seemed to mock her as she put the kettle on. She should contact him, she shouldn't. She deserved tea. The clock above the window ticked. It was almost eleven PM. Dangerously approaching what Meg would call 'the fucking hours.'

Christine sipped her chamomile, checked her phone again. Oh. Hell. No. Down in the right hand corner of her screen, below the blue bubble of text was the only word that could incense her: Read.

Erik had a lot of nerve.

 _Erik? Erik? I saw you at rehearsal._

No response, but again: Read.

 _You're supposed to be more mature—or aren't you always saying so?_

Read. Christine's mug banged dangerously on the counter. The frustrating thing about it all was that she knew that he loved her. Saw the way he worshipped her with his eyes, felt the heat of his body when he stood close. Had learned the hardness that made him turn away.

Maybe the chamomile had gone to her head, maybe she was exhausted from too much waiting and too many games. Maybe she felt alone. Whatever the reason, she did the one thing that she was sure would get a response from him.

 _Erik, please come._

And before she could lose whatever madness had possessed her; she raised the phone above her head, opened the camera, and took a picture. She pressed send, heart beating madly in anticipation.

Cheeks burning. She had never! Oh God, what must he think?

She peeked at the photo. Wet hair, blue eyes, breasts visible, legs crossed. Nothing posed. Nothing sexy, not vulgar. No puckered lips, no arching or spreading. A mug of chamomile in the edge of the frame. She had never done anything like this—why had she?

Nervously, she scampered to the couch and threw a blanket over her shoulders protectively. She had sent a nude to Erik. Serious, passionate, dangerously volatile Erik. She glanced down.

 _Are you out of your senses?_

Now it was his turn to be left on read. Her phone began to ring. She smiled. Video chat.

His face came into view almost instantly. His hair was awry, mask slightly askance. He was as flushed as she. He opened his mouth as if to speak, but she cut him off.

"We promised that we'd be honest with each other, but you stopped being honest with me. You lied to us both." She said.

"Christine. You're clearly distraught—"

"NO! I've had enough lies in my life and enough lost time. I'm not going to lie anymore. You have almost kissed me more times than I can count. I've felt your eyes on me. I've been transfixed by your hands, your voice, your smile—and frankly, Erik: It's too much effort at this point to pretend otherwise. I. Want. You. I enjoy your company. Hell, I may even love you."

He sucked in a breath. A pause so long that she thought they may have lost connection. After all, he did live under the opera house. But then he spoke. "I cannot deny the truth in your analysis, my dear. Perverse and unnatural as it may be, I do long for you beyond the control of my reason. Reciprocation has always seemed highly unlikely, and I've done my utmost to dissuade my inclinations towards you." He cleared his throat, smoothed his hair in a way that she found positively endearing. She was still flushed and furious.

"However," He continued, "I can see that… I made the wrong choice. It had never occurred to me that you would like.. That is to say that you would want—That you could love…" He gestured to his face. "Nevertheless—"

"I do." She blurted. And she did. She loved him. She could feel the wild, stupid grin taking over her face.

He appraised her, agog. Nodded. The screen went blank.

She worried, of course. Too blank to dress, too scared to breathe. The afghan was plush against her shoulders. The knock finally came after twenty three minutes of watching the clock.

She expected awkwardness, fear, hesitation. There was none. She opened her arms, and he seized her murmuring endearments against her crown, crushing her body to him. Stroking her bare flesh with reverence, the length of him pressed against her naked body hard and insistent.

"In all the world, I have never seen anything to rival your untainted splendor."

Christine laughed, and she stood on tiptoe to claim his lips. Opened her mouth to the clever assaults of his tongue. Felt herself melt into him in ways she had only previously imagined. She observed as a third person, the way her hands deftly tugged at his clothes, spread across the expanse of his stomach. Her hand slipping into the waistband of his jeans, feeling him as he stroked the curves of her.

The way he seemed to ask for every touch with his gaze. The pressure of his desire. She released a soft sound as his hands wandered to her breasts. His mask was a hinderance, bumping her tender skin as he lavished her with kisses.

"Erik!" He jumped back. "NO!" She growled, seizing him, peppering penitent kisses on the underside of his jaw. "Your mask is scratching me."

Erik blinked, and like a man entranced tossed it across the room where it landed with a clatter on the hardwood floor. They stood apart, gazing at each other. At the mask. At each other again.

He stretched out his hands. Both as exposed as they could be. Christine stepped forward, cupping in her hands the devastation and perfection that was his face. Smiling.

"I love you." They blurted simultaneously. Laughing that it could all be so simple after so many misunderstandings. And then his hands, his strong, skilled hands were at her hips. Her hands were in his thick black hair. There was nothing but this. And it was perfect.


End file.
